


The Diary of Emily Belmont

by GhanimaAtreides



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Gen, Human/Vampire Relationship, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:28:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24650824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhanimaAtreides/pseuds/GhanimaAtreides
Summary: Emily Belmont was nobody special: just a regular girl making a living as a singer in a third rate bar in Downtown Los Angeles.She certainly couldn't have anticipated that her resemblance to an old painting would lead to her life being turned upside down overnight...Alone, a reluctant pawn in a decades-old game played for higher stakes than she could possibly imagine, Emily battles her own inner demons as she strives to hold on to who she is, to remember what it means to be...human.Finding love was supposed to make it easier; instead it just complicated everything even more.
Relationships: Heather Poe/Original Toreador Character(s)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 12





	1. October 21st (Part One)

**Author's Note:**

> This story, told in diary format, explores the (in)human condition of a newly-Embraced fledgling struggling with the horror and confusion she experienced in the aftermath of her violent transformation.
> 
> The story - which I've put my own spin on - will be familiar to players of Vampire the Masquerade: Bloodlines, but the focus is on Emily's inner turmoil, the traumatic changes brought on by the Embrace, rather than flashy action scenes and fluffy romance. There is romance involved and the relationship is loving, but given Emily's condition and the fact that her partner is a ghoul, it is obviously problematic. 
> 
> Each entry focuses on a significant moment in Emily's unlife, rather than me attempting to retell the whole plot of Bloodlines.

_(Portrait made with Artbreeder)_

**October 21st**

This is the day I died.

That horrible feeling of paralysis you sometimes experience when you’re about to fall asleep and are _certain_ that something is lurking just out of sight, but your muscles refuse to spring into action? It was a bit like _that_.

I can barely remember being hauled out of that dingy motel room and into the van waiting in the empty street outside, limp as a ragdoll, not sure if this was a dream, a hallucination or whether I was dying and these were figments of my oxygen-deprived brain. I could only catch the barest glimpse of the wooden chunk protruding from my chest but it looked real enough, although I couldn’t _feel_ it – and that was a bad sign.

_Please, God, if this is a dream, let me wake up._

I did not wake up. I was tossed in the back of the van with as much consideration as one would show a sack of potatoes. My captors then climbed in as well and shut the doors behind them, snuffing out the last of the light trickling in from a nearby streetlamp. There was a finality in that gesture. I could feel my consciousness ebbing away, and hoped to die of my wound before they could hurt me any more. 

After an indeterminate amount of time the van stopped and one of my kidnappers lifted me onto his shoulder; the world tilted, my vision spun and I caught a glimpse of my companion in this ordeal, a man whose name I couldn’t quite place, though it seemed important, somehow. I tried to recall what had happened to me that night and couldn’t, beyond a few disjointed scraps of memory. Perhaps there’d been an accident, I had a concussion, or…

We were carried into a dark, quiet building that seemed vaguely familiar and deposited quite unceremoniously onto a rough wooden floor, brightly lit from above.

No, not a floor. A stage. I knew then why it seemed familiar: because I’d been there to see Collide in concert only two weeks before. Neon flashes stung my eyes: I could almost hear echoes of the music, feel its wild rhythm reverberate through me…but there was no more music then, only dusty silence. The place I had been brought to after being stabbed and kidnapped was the Nocturne Theatre. _I couldn’t move…could not…move! Why couldn’t I move?!_

As if to answer that question, someone reached down and yanked the wooden stake out of my chest like removing a splinter from a finger. I must have screamed. The wood tore its way out of my body in a flare of agony as powerful as it was brief, and I would have fallen over if someone hadn’t grabbed me by the scruff of my neck, holding me in place.

Feeling returned to my aching body and I discovered I could move again, yet everything felt…wrong. My senses were drifting in and out of focus, sometimes painfully sharp, then the next moment fading again, dispersing into white static. I was too afraid to look down at my torn shirt: reason told me I would see a gaping wound. I knew the injury had to be serious, but could only feel the slightest dribble of blood trickling out of it. The pain was receding, replaced by a crawling sensation like a million worms burrowing into my flesh. I shut my eyes, hoping that when I opened them again the theatre would be gone and I’d be back home nursing a hangover, but safe.

No such luck.

_Good evening._

_My fellow Kindred; my apologies for disrupting any business, or interfering with prior engagements you may have had this evening._

A man’s voice, polite yet cold, pulled me back to reality. For the first time, I was aware of other people on the stage: the speaker, a blond man in a finely-tailored suit, my fellow prisoner – whose name was Elliot, I suddenly remembered – and a few others, some of who made me shrink in horror. A giant who must have measured nearly 8 ft in height towered over us, a sword longer than I was tall slung across his back, while Elliot was being restrained by something that looked vaguely human, but couldn’t have been. Too many teeth, protruding shark-like from scabrous lips, discolored skin covered in sores, crooked fingers terminating in sharp talons…

 _This can’t be real_ , I thought. _They must’ve drugged me, they must…_

It was then that I noticed other figures in the audience, men and women and more of those goblin creatures. It was dark, yet I could make out every detail with perfect clarity, clearer than I could ever remember being able to see. They were listening to the man in the suit saying something about laws being broken, but their eyes were fixated on Elliot and me, bright and fierce in the semi-darkness. 

Was it a cult? The Mafia? I was scrambling to understand who would kidnap a singer from a local bar and her one-night-stand and bring them to an empty theatre in the middle of the night. The man’s speech made little sense when he spoke of “Kindred” and “the privilege of siring”, and I had no idea why he was referring to me as a child, so I assumed it must be some kind of gang slang. On the other hand, “the accused” and “sentence” were clear enough. Elliot must have done something to piss these guys off, and I somehow got caught in the middle.

_Oh god, the police will be finding pieces of us for weeks…_

Groaning, I struggled feebly against the iron fist holding me in place and as my gaze flicked over my kneeling frame, I saw the patch of perfectly smooth skin peeking out of the tear in my shirt. It didn’t bear as much as a scratch, let alone the evidence of a large wooden implement piercing it, yet the ruined shirt assured me I hadn’t somehow hallucinated the whole thing. Struck dumb by this new discovery, I momentarily forgot about Elliot, about the man conducting our trial, and simply tried to hold on to what remained of my sanity. Little did I know it was about to be tested once more.

 _But as some of you may know_ , the blond man was saying, _the penalty for this transgression is death._

They were going to kill us! Panic roared in my brain and I would have bolted, if not for the two hands bearing down on my shoulders, forcing me back on my knees. To make his point, my guard aimed a kick at the small of my back which sent a fresh wave of pain lancing up my spine.

_Let the penalty commence._

I felt unable to look away; my eyes were glued to the impossibly huge man who unslung his sword with ease and lowered it over Elliot’s neck, poised to strike. Just like that, it was done: Elliot’s head was separated from his body, which immediately burst into flames and was reduced to ashes and bits of charred bones within seconds. The stage was barely singed. I could only gape at the impossible unfolding right before my eyes, while my mind recoiled in terror. I tried to gasp and realized I wasn’t breathing. The frantic throbbing of my heart was absent too; my chest was still.

Maybe this was all happening in my head as I lay in that filthy motel room, taking my last breaths in this world…but somehow that thought didn’t ring true. I no longer felt fuzzy and confused, but rather the opposite: a billion impulses danced along my nerves, overwhelming me with sensory input. Everything came into focus at once: the stink of old upholstery and bits of rotting matter congealing into the carpet, the shuffling of bodies in their seats, the thud-thud-thudding of the leader’s feet as he circled me, announcing my execution. At least it would be quick. At least-

 _This is bullshit!_ shouted someone from the audience and I cringed as his booming voice bruised my eardrums. I looked up: a youngish man was on his feet, his expression twisted into a snarl and looking ready to leap onto the stage himself. A cacophony of whispers erupted all around us. Others were rising now and I could sense their anger, as if a dam had been punctured and all their pent-up aggression was threatening to spill out. My would-be judge, jury and executioner saw it too, and for the first time I thought I glimpsed a hint of uncertainty in him.

 _If Mr. Rodriguez would let me finish_ , he countered smoothly, not missing a beat. Though I still had no idea who these people were, I had seen enough to realize he was some kind of authority figure; authority which had just been challenged. Whether this was good for me or bad, remained to be seen.

_I have decided to let this Kindred…live. She shall be instructed in the ways of our kind, and be granted the same rights. Let no-one say I am unsympathetic to the plights and causes of this community._

My head was spinning; I was alive! Or…was I? What was happening to me? I was helped to my feet by the same man who brought me there; since my status had changed from prisoner to free individual, he no longer seemed interested in having anything to do with me, so he simply turned around and vanished backstage. The others were filing out too; I was left alone with the man in the suit, who introduced himself as the Prince Sebastian LaCroix. He looked young; now that I saw him up-close, he seemed to be not much older than I was, but that is where the impression of youth ended. When he moved and spoke, I had the distinct sensation of being in the presence of someone many years my senior, with all the authority that compelled.

“What are you going to do to me?” I asked tentatively, not quite ready to believe I was safe. In fact, I felt as far from it as one could possibly get; I also had about a million questions.

“ _Do_ to you? I intend to let you go free, fledgling, provided that you follow my instructions. What happened to your sire was tragic, and I do apologize for it, but you must understand: there is a strict code of conduct that all of us must adhere to, if we wish to survive. Your sire broke that code, and was held accountable.”

The utter incomprehension I felt must have shown on my face, for he stopped and shook his head derisively.

“I see that Mr. Carlyle did not trouble himself with even the most basic of explanations. Miss Belmont, are you at all aware of what has transpired tonight? Of the…transformation you have undergone?”

“Transformation? I don’t -”

“You must realize by now that you are no longer, shall we say, the same person you were this morning. Take, for example, the fact that you no longer feel the need to breathe, or that your heart has ceased beating.”

I stared at him in horror: _so it was true!_ Either that, or we were both mad.

“I do not have the time for a lengthy monologue, so forgive me if I seem overly brusque: you are clinically dead. A vampire, a fellow Kindred and a member of my organization, which brings with it a number of advantages as well as responsibilities.”

“Vampire! Is this a joke?”

LaCroix looked anything but mirthful.

“I assure you that it is not, and I urge you to take my words very seriously, Miss Belmont. Since you no longer have a sire, I will see to it that you are put into contact with a representative of the Toreador clan who should be able to instruct you in the use of your disciplines and the ways of our kind. We cannot afford a Caitiff in our ranks, which brings me to my next point.”

I trailed LaCroix as he made his way towards the back of the building, trying to wrap my head around what he was saying. Part of me wanted to dismiss this guy as a madman and run back to the snug comfort of my apartment…but I knew that wasn’t an option. There was…something wrong…with me. I pressed my fingers to my wrist, feeling for a pulse: I found none, and my skin was cold as ice. I moved unsteadily, my insides churning with a need that was desperate, vital. My flesh was stretched taut over my creaking bones; bursts of white pain exploded into my brain. I was sure that I was losing my mind. 

“Allowing you to live makes me directly responsible for your subsequent behavior, so what I’m offering is not generosity, but the opportunity to transcend the fate woven by your sire”, LaCroix went on, explaining that I was to be brought by Santa Monica where he had secured a modest “haven” for me. There, I would meet an agent of his by the name of Mercurio who would tell me what to do next. He didn’t elaborate, but I got the distinct impression that I would be watched, and any attempts to run away or betray him would result in summary execution.

“I have shown you great clemency”, LaCroix warned me by way of parting, “Prove it was more than a wasted gesture, fledgling. Don’t come back until you do, and make sure to feed once you reach your haven. There are blood packs in the refrigerator. Good evening.”

I staggered out into the alley behind the Nocturne and almost fell into the arms of a grizzled biker-looking type in a denim vest who burst out laughing when he saw me.

“Hoo-wee what a scene, man! And then they just plop you out here like a naked baby in the woods!”

His voice was coarse and he smelled like he hadn’t bathed in a month, but he frightened me less than LaCroix, with his designer suit and pitiless eyes.

“I saw you, back in the theatre.”

It was true; he’d been in the audience, smoking a cigarette against the wall. With the others, yet apart from them.

“Well spotted, kiddo. I’m Jack; this is probably a lot for you to take in, so why don’t you let me show you the ropes? Could save your hide.”

“I’m, uh, Emily. I…”

I found I couldn’t gather my thoughts enough to finish the sentence. The roaring in my head had reached an unbearable pitch and my every nerve was on fire. Groaning, I grabbed two fistfuls of my hair and doubled over.

“Shit, Emily, you ain’t looking too hot right now. You even _had_ a drink yet?”

Jack’s wide toothy grin had vanished, he scanned my face apprehensively as he lowered my arms and held them firmly at my sides. The world was spinning; it had been a very trying night, and now I felt like clawing my own skin off to stop it hurting. I gazed pleadingly up at this man, this stranger, silently begging him to help me. _Make it stop_ , I thought over and over, _make it stop!_

“LaCroix, you fucking prick”, he spat “Sending her out here on the brink of Frenzy like this, coulda handed her a blood pack or something…listen, kid: you need blood, _right now_. Fortunately for you, there’s a human right around the corner; poor SOB can’t find his car, heh heh heh.”

“What? No, no I can’t…”

Though I was in agony, I still couldn’t stomach the idea of drinking blood, or accept that I really was a…a vampire. Vampires don’t exist.

Then again, people don’t burst into flames and turn to ash when their heads are cut off either. And they generally breathe and have a heartbeat and don’t look like mutant Ebola victims or 8-foot giants.

“‘Course you can”, Jack said encouragingly, but his tone was strained. “Don’t worry, it’ll come so natural you’ll think you’d done it a thousand times already. More to the point, you _need_ to: what you’re feeling right now, the pain, the hunger? That’s the Beast, kid. It wants to take over and when it does it’s like a wild animal wearing your skin: desperate, reckless, it’ll do anything to survive and it’s _you_ that has to deal with the consequences. If that happens, I’ll have to put you down which I don’t really want to do, so be a good girl and come with me, yeah?”

What could I do? I went with him.


	2. October 21st (Part Two)

_(Portrait made with Artbreeder)_

Jack led me further down the alley, the acrid smell of garbage and rusted metal assailing my nostrils, and beyond that…something else. A different scent was pulling me to it, rich, meaty and fresh. I could feel the tips of my canines bearing down on my lower lip. There he was, silhouetted against a patch of night sky, next to a pile of plastic bags reeking of week-old refuse. The longer I stared, the clearer he became, outlined in a lovely halo of shimmering light.

“Go get ‘im”, I heard Jack whispering as if he were a million miles away, though he stood right next to me, “But be careful: stop drinking once you start feeling his heart beginning to slow, you don’t want to kill him. Killing innocents just makes the Beast stronger.”

I wasn’t listening; soundlessly I padded towards my target, who was so preoccupied with trying to make a phonecall, he didn’t even look up at my approach. In an instant I had my arms around him and he barely had the time to gasp before my fangs were in his throat. Jack was right: it was so easy, so right, and utterly divine. I gorged myself on the blood like a parched man gulping down cool, delicious, life-saving water. I abandoned myself to it with the relish of a junkie taking a long-awaited hit: pleasure that was the apotheosis of all pleasure, beyond anything I had ever experienced or imagined possible, or was prepared to cope with. I soared, godlike, eternal. I could not stop; it was impossible to stop, when every fiber of my being demanded another drop, then another, until I would have been left sucking on a dry artery if not for Jack pulling me away, snarling and squirming in his arms like an enraged cat.

“Nuh-ah-ah, now what did I tell you? Stop before the heart slows! Shit, I hate this sire stuff.”

Jack held me until my rage subsided and reality reasserted itself with all the force of a Mack truck slamming straight into me. Blood dribbled down my chin, its coppery taste filled my mouth, and I saw the man from whom I had fed sprawled at my feet, blue-white in the wan glow illuminating the alley. For one horrible moment I thought I had killed him, but my newly-sharpened senses caught the faint whisper of his breath, felt the warmth radiating off his body. He looked bad, though, alive but barely, and I felt sure he would die without medical help. The warm afterglow of my meal drained out of me at once, leaving behind a cold, sick feeling of dread.

Elbowing Jack’s arms away, I crouched down and picked up the man’s phone, thumbing the keys with trembling fingers. Jack was outraged.

“What do you think you're doing?”

“Calling an ambulance; he needs a doctor, a…a transfusion or something!”

“Like hell you are!” he growled and snatched the phone out of my hand before I could react. “Too dangerous, what with LaCroix’ agents still sniffin' around. Yeah, I heard what he told you back there. You start getting the authorities involved and you might not even make it to Santa Monica, kid.”

I glanced dejectedly from the tall, bearded man to the unconscious one on the ground, my guilty conscience urging me to try and save him, to atone for what I’d done.

“We have to do _something_! He’s going to die otherwise!”

Jack scowled at me, and the way his eyes kept darting at shadows put me on edge. What was he afraid of?

“OK, OK, I’ll take care of it once you’re gone and I’m sure the coast is clear; use a pay phone to call an ambulance. He’ll probably make it, but that bleeding heart of yours? It’ll get you in trouble, kiddo.”

Reflexively I drew in a ragged breath and exhaled, forgetting I no longer needed to breathe. The gesture brought with it no calm, no clarity, though it created, for a brief moment, the illusion of life. 

“Thank you”, I muttered, relieved that the responsibility had been lifted off my shoulders, that after drinking his blood I wouldn’t also have this man’s death on my conscience. I didn’t stop to think whether Jack had kept his promise until much later.

“Listen, Emily. I can see you’re a good kid, so I’m gonna give you this one warning: watch out for LaCroix and anyone working for him. I dunno what plans he has for you in Santa Monica, but I’d bet my left nut it involves you taking the fall for something and him comin’ out of it smellin’ like roses. Just like he did in that courtroom.”

My head started spinning all over again; I had not yet given any thought to the condition under which the Prince had spared my life. What could someone like that want from me?

“I don’t understand! He let me live…”

“Only cuzza Nines Rodriguez standing up for you; if not for him, they’d been sweeping you off that stage right now. Nines called him out, enough of the others were willing to listen, so LaCroix decided it was time to show a carefully measured dose of Camarilla benevolence. Politics, kid, pure politics.”

 _Great_ , I thought. Just how big a debt had I been saddled with? Was I the Prince’s indentured servant now? I was just a mediocre singer with an English degree…I felt a pang of infinite loneliness and wished Elliot were still alive. I had a feeling that whatever help Jack was willing to give would not extend to the mysterious task LaCroix had waiting for me in Santa Monica. A sudden thought occurred to me:

“Did you know Elliot? My… _sire_?”

The word felt strange, alien on my tongue. I hardly knew Elliot; I’d noticed him a few times at the bar where I worked, watching me with those too-blue eyes of his that never seemed to waver. Though he wasn’t a particularly large man, in fact he was of average height and quite slim, his presence had a way of filling up the room, making everything else seem dim and colorless by comparison. I thought he was a talent scout or something, but no, he told me, he was just a “lover of beauty” and was there not because of my singing, but because of what I looked like. I felt a little hurt, although I knew my voice wasn’t amazing and I was only working in that dive because it was as far away from my parents’ home as you could get and still be living in LA. He said I reminded him of Alexa Wilding as _Venus Verticordia_ , and was genuinely surprised when I understood the reference. I told him I’d studied English literature in college, which seemed to convince him that our meeting was fated.

We had a few drinks – or rather I did, Elliot left his glass untouched – and talked. He was wise beyond his years, incredibly well-traveled and a little sad. I remember thinking of him as an “old soul”; how close to the mark I was! When he asked me to leave with him, I said yes, thinking nothing of it when he led me to the grungiest motel I’d ever been in, a mildew-stained vision of an 80s horror movie. Normally, several alarm signals would have been going off at that point – I wasn’t really in the habit of having casual sex with strange men - or women for that matter - especially not in places that probably violated about a dozen health regulations. With Elliot, though…I didn’t care. I’d never wanted anybody so badly in my life.

“Yeah, I knew him”, Jack grunted evasively. “Only a little. Seemed like a decent guy, kept to himself a lot which is strange for a Toreador. He wasn’t a Camarilla asslicker though, which probably pissed off LaCroix. I didn’t think he had the balls to do something like this though.”

I glanced away, torn between guilt and anger. I didn’t know why Elliot had chosen to risk his life in order to turn me, and now I would never know. I couldn’t help but think that if we’d never met, he’d still have his head. I would also still be alive, happily unaware that vampires were real.

“There's this rumor going 'round that his generation was lower than most people realized – with Kindred, power increases with age but that ain’t all of it; the lower your generation is, the closer you are to Caine, the stronger your blood is and you can do shit even some Elders only dream of. If it’s true, about your sire, then all the more reason to watch your back: LaCroix doesn’t like rivals.”

I wanted to laugh at the idea that a vampire Prince saw me as a rival, but all I could manage was a grim, humorless smile. Then the name “Caine” registered and my expression changed to disbelief.

“ _Caine?_ Like the one in the Bible?”

“The one and only. The O.G. vampire. Story goes he was cursed by God for killing his brother Abel and that’s how vampires were born. Now, I ain’t no scholar, so I’ve no idea if any of it is true or if Caine just woke up one night with a severe case of anemia. But make no mistake: you are one of the damned and the fallen now: hold on to what humanity you have left, don’t go hungry and don’t give that bastard LaCroix the time of night.”

Our conversation was brought to an abrupt end by the sound of gunshots tearing through the night air: a Sabbat raid was underway, and I was about to be introduced to the worst of vampire society: blood-crazed monsters who outright rejected the idea of humanity and thrived on chaos and destruction. Jack helped me escape; I won’t go over everything that happened that night, suffice it to say that I got away, again.

I wonder how long my luck will last?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fledgling's sire being of a low generation is a headcanon of mine, that offers some kind of explanation for how powerful they become in such a short time (I know the real reason is "because it's a game" but it's interesting to think about, and adds another layer to the conflict with the other powerplayers in LA.)
> 
> Venus Verticordia is a painting by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, a Pre-Raphaelite artist, and Alexa Wilding was the model for it.


End file.
